


In-Flight Entertainment

by wagamiller



Series: 35B [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fear of Flying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4193946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wagamiller/pseuds/wagamiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Oh, you couldn’t have been a nice quiet old lady, could you?” Felicity says, because apparently her brain to mouth filter is even worse when she’s terrified. Good to know. “You had to be–”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I had to be … what?” Oliver says, raising an eyebrow.</i>
</p><p><i>That god-damn eyebrow, though.</i><br/> <br/>Olicity scared-of-flying!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 35B

**Author's Note:**

> From the tumblr prompt - _i’m afraid of flying and you were incredibly helpful and tolerant and sweet about it au_ and originally posted there as 2 ficlets - 35B  & In-Flight Entertainment. Somebody very kindly asked that I post it over here as well.
> 
> _Disclaimer:_ Not my characters, etc.

* * *

 

  
The thing about moving to the other side of the country is that at some point, you actually have to  _get_  to the other side of the country.

“This is the worst idea ever,” Felicity grumbles to herself as she passes through the cabin, clutching her boarding card so tight that it’s starting to warp. “The absolute worst.”

The plane’s crowded and stuffy, and the heat is sticking the ends of her ponytail to the clammy skin at the back of her neck. Everybody seems to be on their feet, shuffling awkwardly around each other as they try to shove their too-large bags into the too-small overhead containers. Hefting her appropriately sized carry-on up her shoulder (seriously, did nobody else read the Ferris Air website before flying today?), Felicity pushes her way through the crowd and resists the urge to suggest that everybody just sit the fuck down.

“Finally,” she mutters, spotting her seat and almost taking out at least two other passengers as she bee-lines for it. Throwing an insincere apology over her shoulder, she shuffles into the row, dumping her bag on the window seat and grabbing a couple of essentials for the seat pocket. Ok, more than a couple. More like three magazines, her iPod, her tablet, her earphones, some Rescue Remedy, a bottle of antibac hand-gel (because  _ew,_  airplane bathrooms), and some water. 

When she’s done squashing the last item in, she straightens up and heads back into the aisle.

Or at least, she tries to.

What she  _actually_  does is barrel right into someone. Someone solid and tall and who definitely wasn’t standing there a second ago.

“Oof!” She bounces back gracelessly, reaching for the seat in front to steady herself just as the stranger reaches for her too. Somehow she winds up grabbing his arm instead of the chair, her hand closing over his bicep  -  _hello, muscles!_ \- just enough to avoid another stumble.

“Sorry!” Felicity rights herself, snatching her hand back and glancing up at -- oh, come on, seriously? Couldn't she have embarrassed herself in front of someone a little less perfect?

This guy is … well, hot. Basically. Perfect is really not overstating things. He’s tall and broad, and there’s hint of plenty more muscles going on under that criminally well fitted white tee. There’s something dimly familiar about him too; if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s hanging out in the cheap seats, she might have thought he was famous. 

"You ok?" the stranger asks, fixing her with bright blue eyes that are all polite concern and prettiness.

Felicity swallows down a sigh. Like, an actual sigh.  _Oh just look how handsome you are._  That kind of sigh. 

“Fine," she assures him quickly, hoping her cheeks aren't as red as they feel. "Didn't see you, sorry." 

She kind of can't  _not_ see him now. It's actually difficult to look at anything else.

"No problem," he says easily, before gesturing to her bag and the overhead locker. "You want me to–" 

"Please," she says, passing it over gratefully. 

Terrible idea, as it happens.

(Well, awesome idea really.) 

The moment he reaches up to open the locker, his t shirt rides up a little to reveal a strip of skin and the single most impressive V Cut that she's ever seen in real life. Or on tv for that matter. 

Felicity averts her eyes, which feel roughly the size of saucers by now, but not before he catches her looking. And yeah, it’s awkward and embarrassing but it could have been way worse. At least she didn’t go full Hayley Atwell and just paw at the air between them. The thought did cross her mind.

His smile's a little smug when he lifts up her bag and she's pretty sure he doesn't need to do it one handed but if he's showing off, she's not about to complain. Like, at all.

Bag secure, he tugs his t-shirt back down and then sits down.

In the seat right next to hers.

For the six hour flight they’re about to take.

Felicity actually catches herself looking around the plane, as though a passing flight attendant might be able to help. 

_Excuse me, there's a Greek God in 35B, what do I do?_

 

* * *

 

There’s one problem with the whole handsome neighbour situation.

He cannot sit still. Like, at all. He’s restless, constantly shifting his legs around as the plane makes a slow taxi towards the runway. 

Felicity puts down her Sky Mall catalogue - it’s not distracting her enough anyway - and glances over at him.

“Scared of flying?” she guesses, taking in the jump of his thigh under his hand.

“What? No,” he replies, turning in his seat to look at her. “It’s just a little cramped.”

Now that he mentions it, it’s obvious. His knees are pretty much rammed into the seat in front, his arms overspilling into the aisle on one side and onto the arm-rest between their seats on the other.

“Oh, of course. You’re so big. I mean - long. No!” She stops, forcing herself to take a breath.  “Your legs are long,” she amends carefully, her cheeks burning, “because you’re tall.”

Her neighbour just laughs, a soft little noise that he seems almost surprised to have made.

“Sorry,” Felicity says, blowing out a breath. “I get inappropriate when I’m nervous.” 

The plane stops then, juddering to a halt as it reaches the line waiting for the runway.

“So you’re afraid of flying?” he guesses, as she stutters out a gasp.

Ah. Make that two problems with the handsome neighbour situation. He can’t sit still  _and_ he’s going to witness her having a total meltdown in the next five minutes. Shit, shit, shit.

“Um ... no,” she lies, badly. “W-what makes you think that?”

“Well, it was your first guess about me,” he points out, shifting in his seat to face her fully and cocking his head, considering her. “Also you look like you might throw up at any moment.”

“Well, I’ll try and aim away from you if I do,” Felicity jokes, weakly.

“Thanks.” He laughs again, more a rumble of breath than anything else. 

The plane moves forward a little, drawing ever closer to the front of the line, and Felicity grabs the arm rest, panic spiking in her chest.

“Ok, so maybe I am a bit scared of flying,” she admits, her voice shrill.

“I figured.”

It’s not fair, the way he’s looking at her, all concern and crinkly blue eyes. She can’t be expected to breathe easy, nevermind the impending take off. 

“Oh, you couldn’t have been a nice quiet old lady, could you?” Felicity says, because apparently her brain to mouth filter is even worse when she’s terrified. Good to know. “You had to be–”

“I had to be … what?” he says, raising an eyebrow.

That god-damn eyebrow, though.

She’d be irrationally mad at him, just for making one perfectly arched eyebrow that hot, but it actually manages to distract her from the all consuming fear that’s eating away at her insides, so she decides to let him off.

“Oh come on.” She huffs, waving a hand in his general direction. “You must own a mirror. You know what I’m talking about.”

He huffs a laugh, his eyes bright with amusement. “I’m Oliver, by the way.”

“Felicity.”

“Felicity,” he repeats, like he’s testing it out. Then he smiles, as if he likes how it sounds, and her heart does this embarrassing little fluttery thing that’s got nothing to do with the fact that they’re about to take off. 

Except, oh shit, they _are_  about to take off. Felicity swallows hard, pressing herself back into her seat as the plane finally swings round onto the runway.

“Hey,” Oliver says quietly, bumping his shoulder against hers, hard, like a brace. “It’s ok, just breathe.”

“I’m trying,” she squeaks out, pressing back against his arm. 

“That’s it, just focus on this,” he says, voice low and soothing from beside her. “Keep the pressure on, don’t let me move your arm.”

“What, are we having a war for the arm rest?” She giggles, the sound a little too high to be genuine.

“If it helps,” Oliver murmurs, still pressing insistently against her side. “Whatever helps.”

It  _does_  help actually, so she pushes a little harder, putting all her energy into resisting the pressure of his arm. She’s cold all over now, her sweat-damp skin cooling rapidly, but Oliver is warm, and solid beside her. As she pushes against him, it feels like a little of his warmth, his steadiness, steals across to her. 

The plane puts on a final burst of speed and  Felicity gasps in a breath, slamming her eyes shut.

When she opens her eyes again, they’re in the air, and she’s holding his hand.

“Shit, sorry!” she says, trying to extricate her hand.

“S’ok,” he murmurs back, not releasing her. “I’ve got you.”

She knows he can’t really mean it, not in any real way. It’s just a turn of phrase. But he  _sounds_  like he means it, and his voice is warm and low, and so, so close. He’s turned his head right towards her, practically speaking into her ear, and the rough pad of his thumb is tracing a mindless pattern against the skin of her palm.

Felicity drops her head to the side until she’s staring right at him, blue eyes on blue. The internet had suggested a lot of things to stay calm - deep breathing, music, guided meditation, even pills, but she’s pretty sure this is all she needs.

“Alright?” Oliver asks, his voice a gravelly whisper that surely belongs in the bedroom.

“Alright,” Felicity whispers back, surprised to find that she means it.

Oliver’s tongue darts out and wets the bottom of his lip, and for a split second Felicity actually forgets that she’s twenty five thousand feet in the air.

\--


	2. In-Flight Entertainment

_Ten minutes after take off._

Her hand feels empty.

Which is stupid, she reminds herself sternly. So stupid.

She held Oliver’s hand for a couple of minutes at most, just until the plane reached cruising altitude and she finally stopped hyperventilating. There’s absolutely no reason why she should be missing the feeling now, even if his calloused fingers had felt kind of amazing against her palm.

I mean, who even has hands like that? He must work with them, something physical, maybe a trade like ... building beautiful hardwood furniture. Yes, that’s perfect. He’s Bill Pullman in  _While You Were Sleeping._

“You’re sure you’re ok?” Bill Pullman asks, for the hundredth time. “Really?”

He’s genuinely concerned, which is so sweet. Felicity musters up a smile for him, until it occurs to her that he might just be worried that he’s stuck next to someone having a meltdown for the next six hours. 

“Honestly, I’m fine,” she says, purposely slowing her voice, trying to sound as steady and sane as possible. She kind of ends up sounding ... a little stoned? Ugh.

“It’s just take-off that really freaks me out,” she goes on, giving up and reverting to talking at her normal (freakishly fast) speed. “And landing. Also turbulence.”

“But other than that you’re ok?”

“Well,” she shrugs, “can’t say I’m thrilled about being in a tin can in the sky, but I’m not actively panicking."

“Good.”

“So no more grabbing your hand, I promise.”

“Unless there’s turbulence.”

Somehow he actually manages to make that sound appealing.

 

* * *

 

_Forty minutes after take off_

"So Starling City, huh?" Oliver says, clearly casting around for conversation topics to cut the silence. “You live there?”

Ha! So he definitely does want to talk, then. Good to know. 

“Yeah” - Felicity checks her watch - “in five hours and thirty minutes, I will. New job, I’m moving out." 

"Exciting."

"Terrifying, actually. But thanks.”

“Ah, you’ll be fine,” Oliver says easily, waving a hand. “And you’ll like Starling–”

“So you live there, then?” 

“Born and bred,” he explains, with a fond smile that speaks of a history she can’t comprehend. She can’t imagine ever smiling like that about Vegas. “It’s got a bit of a bad rep, but it’s a great city.”

“The vigilante aside?”

Oliver’s lips twitch. “Oh, I don’t know. I think he add a little character, don’t you?”

“You could call it that, I guess.”

“So what’s the job?” 

“Deputy Head of IT, at Queen Consolidated.”

Oliver blinks a little too fast, ever so slightly betraying his surprise. He smooths it away with a smile, but she’s seen that look before.

“I know I seem a little young,” she says, shrugging off his reaction. “But I just so happen to be wicked smart.” 

Bragging, yes, but also true. 

Oliver smiles at her boast, his whole face lighting up. 

Huh. 

That’s new. Bragging about her intelligence doesn’t usually go down so well with guys.

“Oh, is that right?” he asks, cocking his head at her. 

Hold on. Is he actually … flirting? About her brain power instead of her boobs?

Oh, Bill Pullman. You just keep getting better.

“Yep,” Felicity says, popping the  _p_. “Never met a system I couldn’t hack. Theoretically, obviously,” she amends quickly. Way too quickly. “I’m not actually a hacker. I don’t hack … stuff. Anymore. Or _ever,_  actually. Ever.”

“Right.” 

“Queen Consolidated isn’t hiring me to hack, either! I should probably stress that!” 

Well, this is going downhill fast.

“Also not hiring me for my public speaking skills, either,” she adds dully, screwing her face up into a wince, “which is probably obvious.” 

Oliver just laughs, shaking his head softly, and Felicity is forced to consider the possibility that he might actually find her babbling ... charming?

She fights down a grin and fails, spectacularly.

 

* * *

 

_One hour fifty minutes after take off_

Felicity’s read all her magazines. She’s done the crossword, three sudoku and a word search. Her tablet’s right there, all queued up with a couple of movies, but she can’t make herself reach for it. If she does that, if she puts in the headphones, then that’s it - a signal to Oliver that she doesn’t want to talk at all anymore. So ... yeah, she’s not gonna do that.

“So what took you to Boston?” she asks, picking a topic at random.

“Work,” Oliver replies, blowing out a long breath. “I … uh …  just took over the family business actually.”

“Wow. That’s got to be a lot of pressure–”

“Yeah, I pretty much don’t sleep anymore,” he says, huffing a half-laugh. “I just–” He falters, casting around for the words. “I don’t want to be the one that screws it all up, y’know?”

“You won’t.”

“You think?”

“I do,” she says warmly, earning a smile from him. “And if it goes horribly wrong, you could have a great career in calming nervous flyers…”

“I don’t know.” Oliver waves a hand, his smile edging towards a smirk. “I don’t go round holding just anybody’s hand, y’know.”

It’s a cheesy line, but somehow he pulls it off. It’s the smile, Felicity decides, that sells it - just the right side of suggestive, with a hint of some shared secret in it. 

“What’s the family line of business, anyway?” 

Please say furniture making. Please say furniture making. Please say furniture making.

“Well, actually–”

The flight attendant interrupts smoothly, appearing at Oliver’s side with a cart, “Hot or cold drinks, folks?” 

Oliver never does get round to answering the question so in the absence of evidence to the contrary, she’s still calling it a hardwood furniture business. With occasional trans-continental travel. Hey, you never know.

 

* * *

 

_Two hours after take off_

She’s not going to ask.

She’s not.

It’s intrusive, and the answer’s probably sad, and definitely none of her business.

“Oliver, can I ask you something?” 

Apparently she has zero impulse control. Great.

“Your friend … uh … Tommy, that you mentioned before? Y-you said he  _was_  your friend…”

“Oh,” Oliver says, so quietly that she immediately regrets the line of questioning, even before she gets his answer. “Yeah. He uh … he died about 3 months ago.”

Well, fuck. 

“The Undertaking?” she guesses, from the timing.

Oliver nods, his jaw tight, and her heart sinks. 

“Oh God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked, I just–” 

“No, it’s ok,” Oliver says, even though it looks like he’s holding himself together by a thread. “It’s nice to talk about him. Nobody just ...  asks about him anymore.”

“They probably don’t want to upset you,” she says, flapping her hands awkwardly. “Whereas I, apparently, am some sort of moron who–”

“I think he would’ve liked you,” Oliver interrupts suddenly.

She halts her ramble, suddenly breathless, because she gets the feeling that’s one of the biggest compliments Oliver can pay. “You … you really think so?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Tears prick the back of her eyes and she puts her hand over his on the arm rest. Oliver smiles, and it’s a little sad, a little broken, but it’s real. 

“Tell me about him,” she asks.

 

* * *

 

_Two hours twenty five minutes after take off_

The sky outside is a deep, clear blue. It’s staggeringly beautiful.

And Felicity is trying really, really hard to look at it.  But, y’know, she’s scared of heights and all. 

Also, Oliver’s kind of beautiful too. 

I mean, his jawline from this angle is ridiculous. For a wild second, she vividly imagines leaning over and biting it. It’s possible that the cabin air pressure is not quite right. That’s the only explanation.

It's strange really, because most of her past boyfriends have been a specific type - tall and a little gangly, all sharp edges and hollows of skin. But Oliver ... he is something else. He's solid, filled out in a way she could really get used to and -- woah, did she just start comparing him to actual ex boyfriends?

She stops herself, biting back a laugh at how ridiculous she’s being, and turns back to the window.

Pretty clouds. Pretty sky. 

…

Pretty boy.

She gives up, looking back at Oliver, just in time to catch him gazing right at her. 

Her heart flips over.

Oliver ducks his head, bashful and blushing.

 

* * *

 

_Three hours after take off_

He’s too big.

(Yeah, yeah,  _that’s what she said._ )

I mean literally, too big. He can’t seem to get used to the lack of leg-room, grumbling under his breath about it constantly, his dissatisfied growls getting louder and more irritated (and ok, kind of sexier) as the flight goes on. He’s constantly knocking his knees against the seat in front whenever he moves and there’s a nasty incident with the tray table and a cup of coffee that nearly ends up scalding them both. She laughs about it. He really, really doesn’t. Which kind of makes her laugh some more, just to see the moment he gives up on irritation and smiles.

“So you’re not a frequent flyer, then?” 

“Not like this,” Oliver mutters, holding tight to his coffee this time as he shifts in his seat. He falters a little, as though he’s just said something he shouldn’t. “I … uh … don’t usually fly coach,” he adds vaguely, scratching the side of his cheek awkwardly.

“Figures.”

“What?”

“Your watch,” she says, nodding to the expensive looking timepiece on his wrist. “It doesn’t exactly scream steerage.”

“Steerage?” he repeats, a smile now playing around his lips. “What is this, the Titanic?”

“You jump, I jump, Jack,” she recites, smiling in return. “Although if you’re the rich one, I guess that makes you Rose, which makes me Jack, and that means I’m the one that dies–”

“You’re not dying.”

“Promise?” 

“I promise, Felicity.”

“Thanks.”

Damn, she could really get used to the sound of her name on his lips. And to holding his hand. And maybe, just maybe, to sliding her hand under the hem of that white tee-shirt and -- oh, get a grip, woman. 

She picks up the  _Sky Mall_ magazine, effectively ending the conversation.

Still, she swears he’s still looking at her long after she looks away.

 

* * *

 

_Three hours thirty minutes after take off_

“Fully functional USB cuff-links?” Felicity snorts, showing Oliver her latest find in the catalogue. God, Sky Mall is a gift. “Who would even need those?”

“I don’t know,” he says, shrugging, “could be useful.”

That’s his line for half this crap.  _Could be useful_. She’s almost positive he’s just doing it to drive her crazy.

“Right,” she scoffs, “I bet you often find yourself needing to sneak a USB into a fancy party and dash upstairs to steal something classified.”

Oliver just laughs. “You never know.”

“Ok, James Bond,” she says, rolling her eyes and maybe, just maybe, indulging in a momentary fantasy of Oliver in a tuxedo. Damn. “What about this, I defy you to find this useful.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s a Face Trainer.”

“A what?”

“Apparently it, ‘firms and tones the skin around your face, removing fine lines.’”

“So it’s a really tight balaclava?”

“Basically.”

“Well. Could be–”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Someone might need identity concealment  _and_ better skin–”

“The Face Trainer, for the bank robber who is just too busy for a facial,” Felicity announces, imitating the voice over from a late night commercial.

 

* * *

 

_Four hours twenty minutes after take off_

_“Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re experiencing some slight turbulence, so the captain has turned on the Fasten Seatbelt sign. Please return to your seats if you’re moving about the cabin, and fasten your seatbelt.”_

The flight attendant’s voice is clear and calm, like it’s no big deal.

Yeah, right.

“Oliver!” She calls his name the second the announcement ends, even though he’s sat right next to her, and clearly heard the same thing she did.

Her heart-rate slows down a little, just as soon as he says, “I’m here, Felicity.” He shifts in his seat to face her, eyes fixed on her. “Look at me,” he says slowly, tracking her frantic gaze around the cabin until she finally settles on him. “It’s alright.”

She’s gripping the hand-rest so tightly that he has to peel her fingers off, one by one, to take her hand.

“I hate this,” she mumbles, pressing her free hand into her chest and pushing out long, slow breaths as she tries to calm down.

“Just keep breathing, it’ll be over before you know it,” he says, squeezing her fingers, trying to inject a little warmth into her cold hands.

The plane trembles a little, buffeted by the wind, and she hisses her displeasure, closing her eyes and turning her head into Oliver’s shoulder. It’s a little intimate considering they literally met about 4 hours ago, but she’s freaking the fuck out over here, and he’s so warm, and so calm, and being so freaking  _nice_ about everything, so she lets herself stay there.

“I got you,” Oliver says softly, ducking his head to touch the top of hers briefly. “You’re safe.”

Despite herself, she actually believes him.

 

* * *

 

_Five hours after take off_

Well, shit.

Oliver’s asleep.

At least, she thinks he is - his eyes are certainly closed and his breathing has evened right out.

It’s not actually the sleeping that’s the problem. It’s that she’s currently standing in the aisle on her way back from the bathroom, which means his sleeping body is the obstacle between her and her seat. Felicity wrings her hands, hopping from foot to foot in indecision. She could wake him, obviously, but he looks kind of peaceful like this, all the lines in his forehead smoothed away.

She reaches out a hand and snatches it back at the last second. Nope. Can’t do it. Can’t wake Sleeping Beauty. 

That leaves climbing over him, and how hard can that be?

Carefully, very slowly, she lifts one leg over his knees and plants it on the other side of him until she’s basically straddling him, face to face.

That’s when she realises this was a bad idea.

It’s also when he wakes up, obviously.

Felicity gasps, taken by surprise, as Oliver jerks awake and grabs for her, his hands landing on her hips. The motion throws her off balance and she drops down, sitting right in his lap.

Well, great.

Did somebody order a lap-dance for the gentleman in 35B?

“Sorry! Sorry!” she shrieks, standing back up as Oliver snatches his hands away, fully awake now. “I didn’t want to wake you!”

“Well you … uh… failed,” Oliver stutters out, a little breathless.

Carefully, with much effort not to brush any body parts that she really, really, shouldn’t, she climbs off his lap and settles back in her seat.

Oliver waits until she’s buckled back in before he turns to her and says, tongue between his teeth, “I feel like I should tip you or something.”

She groans, burying her face in her hands.

 

* * *

 

_Five hours ten minutes after take off_

“I really am sorry about before,” she blurts, yet again, waving a hand in the vicinity of his lap and immediately regretting the motion. 

“Honestly, it’s fine,” Oliver assures her, fighting back a laugh. 

“I didn’t want to wake you–”

“You said.”

“So I just thought I’d–”

“Really, Felicity, it’s ok.” He’s out and out laughing now, not even trying to hide his amusement.

She lets out a plaintive sigh, closing her eyes on his infuriatingly amused face. 

“I don’t usually wake people up with lap dances,” she moans, biting her fist. “That’s not a thing I do.”

“Kind of is now.”

“Stop it. I’m trying to be embarrassed.”

“And I’m trying to tell you it’s ok,” Oliver says, softer now. “In fact, I should be thanking you - I was having a nightmare when you woke me up.”

She cracks one eye open. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m serious.”

“What was the nightmare then?”

“I was … lost, somewhere. Far from home–”

“Oh.”

“It’s kind of a recurring thing actually,” Oliver says, coughing awkwardly. 

She opens her eyes properly, and his nervous face swims into view. He’s not lying about the dream, she can tell. His eyes are shadowed, seeing something far away, something she can’t see.

“I have a recurring dream too,” she tells him, with a heavy sigh. “My laptop snaps shut and tries to eat my fingers.”

Oliver lets out a breathless little laugh, and the darkness in his eyes disappears.

 

* * *

 

_Five hours forty minutes since take off_

“They really don’t have Big Belly Burger on the East Coast?”

“Nope,” she says, laughing at how disgusted he looks. “Definitely not in Boston, anyway.”

“That’s unbelievable.”

“It’s actually why I’m moving,” she jokes.

“You have to go,” Oliver insists, waving his hands. It’s maybe the most animated she’s seen him. And it’s because of a burger joint. Ugh.  _Boys._ “Add it to your list.”

The list is every place he’s recommended in Starling so far, scrawled on a scrap of paper, half in her handwriting, half in his.

“I guess I could–”

“No, no you have to,” he repeats urgently, “I’ll take you!”

There’s one moment of stunned silence, and then Oliver clears his throat awkwardly, realising what he’s just said.

What’s the word for a group of butterflies? A swarm? A flutter? Whatever that word is, she’s got one in her stomach right now. 

“Like ...  a date?” she manages to say.

Oliver takes a deep breath, and nods. “Yes, Felicity. Exactly like a date.”

Oh.

My.

God.

OhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygod.

“I can do better than Big Belly Burger,” Oliver says suddenly, taking her silence the wrong way. “I can–”

“Oh no, no, Big Belly Burger sounds perfect,” she assures him, so quickly the words practically blur into nonsense.

“Really?” He looks so unsure, she actually feels like her heart might burst. God, she could kiss him right now. She won’t. But oh boy, she _could_. 

“Really.” 

Actually, kissing is probably an option now. Oh my god kissing is  _totally_ an option now. Not now-now, because ew, it’s the end of a six hour flight and she feels kind of gross. But generally, kissing is a thing that might happen. On their date, for instance. She fights down the urge to squeal, like a teenage girl getting asked to prom.

“And I could show you around the City a little, maybe a couple places off the list–”

“I’d like that!”

“Good.”

“I’ll get you my number,” she says, grabbing for a pen and tearing a strip off the back page of her magazine. The moment she looks up to hands it to him, he grimaces, his smile dropping. “What?”

“I have to tell you something,” he begins, scrubbing a hand over his jaw.

Fuck. 

She knew this was too good to be true.

Handsome eligible rich bachelors who may or may not make bespoke wooden furniture don’t just appear in the seat next to you. 

“You have a girlfriend.”

“What? No, no–”

“Oh god, you have a wife!”

“No, nothing like that.”

The tannoy interrupts, smoothly announcing,  _“Ladies and Gentlemen we’re entering our final descent into Starling City…”_

“Shit,” Felicity says, checking her seatbelt even though she knows full well that it’s fastened. 

“Felicity–”

“I don’t want to know,” she says impulsively, shaking her head. “Not now. Whatever it is, tell me at Big Belly Burger, ok?”

“Are you sure?”

_“Cabin Crew, seats for landing, please.”_

“Yes, yes, I’m sure. Just … hold my hand. Please?”

 

* * *

 

_Landing_

Starling City is beautiful from the air.

Probably.

Felicity really wouldn’t know, since all she can see is the white of Oliver’s sleeve, where she’s resting her head.

“We’re almost down,” Oliver murmurs, his voice a gentle lilt somewhere just above her head. “Not long now.”

She pulls her head back, craning her neck up to look at him.

He’s studying her carefully, concern etched in every line of his now familiar face. He looks almost pained by the look in her eyes - like he just might cry if she does. She can’t fathom it, that sort of connection doesn’t just  _happen_. Except today, apparently it does. Quite without warning, as they glide smoothly to the ground, she suddenly feels something other than fear.

She feels _lucky._

To be here, on this exact flight, on this exact day, in this exact seat.

To meet this man.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she blurts out, suddenly feeling like she has to get this all out before they land. “I’m so glad I met you.”

“I’m glad too,” Oliver says warmly, squeezing her hand and ducking down to her level, until he’s so close his forehead almost touches hers. 

He licks his lips absently and that’s it, she’s thinking about it, about how all she’d have to do would be to tilt up her chin and lean in, and she’d be kissing him. Then Oliver’s eyes drop, inch by inch, to her lips and it’s happening - he’s leaning in, and his hand is under her chin, and she’s not breathing at all. The moment stretches, his lips hovering over hers, until --

The plane hits the runway hard, jolting them apart. 

Felicity groans, thrown back into her seat. “I really, really hate flying.”

Oliver just laughs, a rumble from deep in his chest, and squeezes their clasped hands. “Well we’re on the ground now.”

“I noticed,” she grumbles, as the plane slows, beginning to taxi up to their gate.

“So,” Oliver says, waving his free hand towards the window, “Felicity, welcome to Starling City.”

Felicity grins, excitement jumping in her chest. New town. New job. She glances to her right, where Oliver’s beaming at her. New guy? Maybe.

“I think I’m going to like it here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be a third and final part added to this at some point, in which Felicity finally finds out just who she's been sat next to :)


End file.
